Earning His Wings
by tragicbeauty1991
Summary: Erik had never believed in angels, that was, until he met a little orphan girl called Christine.  Christmas fic :   I don't own POTO or its characters.


**Author's Note: Hey, everyone! Well, I know in the original work, it is supposed that Erik & Christine have never met in person until the day he takes her to the lair, but I thought I'd change things up a bit. I have often felt like Christine's strong convictions that Erik is the "Angel of Music" (even as an adult) would be more believable if she could have actually seen him at some point in her childhood. Likewise, I think that Erik's deep affection for Christine, first as a fatherly love and later as something more, probably stemmed from more than just him acting as her tutor from afar, and so this fic was born! I am basing this story primarily off of the 2004 version, but it works just as well with stage Erik as with Gerik, so it's whichever you prefer. :) Anyway, hope you guys enjoy this! God bless, and have a merry Christmas! **

**Earning His Wings**

Erik tugged at the thick woolen cloak draped over his shoulders, wrapping it tighter against his slender frame. It was late December, and the dark streets of Paris twinkled merrily with the faint glow of the candles adorning each and every church window. A light snow had fallen the night before, dusting the streets with a layer of white that now shone like gold in the light of the streetlamps. Erik, of course, kept to the shadows, careful not to draw attention to himself, taking only the darkest back alleys. He shuddered as another gust of icy wind swirled down the street, sending a shower of powdery white flakes in his direction and stinging the exposed left side of his face. He scowled, wondering why he'd even bothered to come above on such a frigid night.

The soft, lilting tone of a hymn on the breeze caught his attention, the joyful voice of a choir lifting its praises to God. The midnight mass was nearly upon them. He closed his eyes, as if in pain, and listened to the familiar song, the only sound breaking the stillness of the night. While on any other occasion he might have enjoyed the music, tonight it brought him only false hopes and broken dreams. Tonight, everyone else was celebrating with family and friends. Everyone else was opening gifts and glutting themselves. Everyone else was sharing stories round the fire or singing hymns at mass. And here he was, alone and shivering in the shadows just outside the cathedral. He strained to hear the familiar voice of Antoinette Giry, the only person he had ever considered a friend. Just like every year, she had invited him to come to the service, and just like every year, he had politely turned her down. But for her sake he had promised, like always, to listen from afar if for no other reason than to appease her fear for his mortal soul. He doubted it would make a difference, but the woman had shown him more kindness than anyone else ever had, and so he felt it was the least he could do to repay her.

He glanced at the wooden nativity scene, the carved figures staring with awe and adoration at the Christ Child, His tiny form lying in a bed of straw—a cradle more fit for a beggar than a King. Surely a Savior who came in such a lowly form was meant for the poor as well as the rich, for the homely as well as the winsome? Peace on Earth. Goodwill to _all_ men. Had that not been the promise of the angels that silent night in Bethlehem?

_But you are not like other men_, he reminded himself. _You are a creature of the night and of darkness, a monster from the pits of hell, the spawn of Satan. You are unworthy of such salvation. You are beyond the reach of heaven's light. No Holy Son of God could bear to look upon the wickedness of your abhorrent face._

He felt his chest constrict and choked back a sob. _Why, God? Why?_ The warm tears on his exposed cheek seemed to freeze almost instantly, and he quickly brushed them away, angry with himself for losing his composure.

A sudden flicker in the lamplight drew his attention, and he whirled to face his shadowy opponent, surprised to see not a man but a small girl wandering down the dark alley. Her thin white dress was torn and ragged, filthy with soot and grime from living in the streets. Her hair, which fell past her shoulders in bedraggled brown curls, was wild and unkempt. Yet her disheveled appearance could not conceal her naturally attractive features even as her soft weeping could not hide the splendor of her childlike voice whispering a prayer in song. She must have been a beautiful child. Erik frowned. What was such a young girl doing out alone at this hour? He debated whether to approach the child, knowing that in all likelihood the sight of his ghostly half-masked face would frighten her away.

_But I can't just ignore her,_ he reasoned. _It wouldn't be fair to leave her out in the cold._

_Life's not fair! The world has never shown compassion for you. Why should you pity another who would likely despise you just as they have?_

_She is just a child. She is innocent…_

_If she were a man, you'd have already had a rope around her throat, regardless…_

Luckily, he did not have to endure these conflicting thoughts for long, for while he had been arguing with himself, the girl had come closer and in her state of distress, walked right into Erik! He stiffened, standing as still as a statue as he watched the girl recoil, nearly tumbling over backward as she attempted to apologize in broken French.

"I—I am sorry, monsieur. I didn't see you there." Her accent was difficult for him to place. Scandinavian, perhaps? "Please, sir, I have no money."

Erik nearly laughed. The poor girl clearly thought he was going to rob her, yet she seemed not to have even noticed his mask, which was hidden well in the shadow of his hood. He slowly knelt down to her level, careful to turn the masked portion of his face away from the glint of the streetlamps, and placed a gentle hand upon her trembling shoulder.

"I do not want your money, child. You should not be out here alone. Where is your family?"

Those deep brown eyes, once wide with fear, now filled with tears. "I have no family, monsieur."

Erik closed his eyes momentarily in thought. _What am I getting myself into? _He glanced back down at the girl. "What is your name, child?"

"Christine Daaé, sir."

_Daaé?...Where have I heard that name before? _Erik vaguely remembered reading something in the paper a few weeks back about the death of an acclaimed Swedish violinist with the same surname. But surely she could be no relation. Surely the child of such a well-known musician would have _someone _willing to care for her. And yet…Erik decided against further questioning the girl, as it would only bring her further grief. Instead, he offered her a rare smile.

"Christine…That is a lovely name."

"Thank you," she replied timidly. "I was named after my grandmother…on my father's side." At the mention of her father, she felt the tears return and looked away, ashamed for the kind stranger to see her cry.

Erik was unsure of how to proceed. He had very little experience interacting with other members of the human race. In fact, laying aside his friendship with Antoinette Giry, this was very likely the longest he'd ever been able to hold a conversation, and though he'd often ached for the comfort of others in his own life, he had absolutely no idea how to give it to the weeping child in front of him. He hesitated.

"Do…do you like flowers, Christine?"

The girl sniffed and nodded silently, her large brown eyes suddenly curious.

He smiled again. So far, his plan seemed to be working. "So do I. Roses have always been my favorite. Would you like a rose, Christine?"

She nodded eagerly, eyes brightening. Then, suddenly, she frowned, her delicate little eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "But it's winter-time! There aren't any flowers blooming now."

"Oh, there are…You just have know where to look. In fact, I believe I see one right…there!" With a quick flourish of the hand, he pulled a bright red rose from behind her ear.

A soft gasp of delight escaped her lips.

"For you, my lady."

Christine gingerly accepted the flower, holding the delicate stem almost reverently. "But…how did you…?"

Erik waved his hands, a sly grin on the visible side of his face. "Magic," he whispered.

The girl smiled, her teeth a perfect set of little pearls except for the tiny gap where her top left eyetooth should have been. Erik couldn't help but return the smile…until he noticed that the girl was shivering. And no wonder, given the state of her dress. He himself was nearly freezing, and that was with several layers of clothing. Her thin cotton dress could not possibly be keeping her warm. He frowned, suddenly feeling very foolish for not taking notice of her distress before. Without thinking, he removed his cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders.

"Here. You need this more than I do."

He heard her gasp and realized too late that in removing the cloak he had revealed the mask. He winced, painfully aware of the way she was staring at his face.

"It's you," she whispered.

Erik panicked. What did she know of him? Had she been told stories of the famous Opera Ghost? Or worse, the Devil's Child? Whatever she had heard, it would certainly shatter any chance at friendship he might have hoped for. He bowed his head in defeat.

"Oh, Angel! Papa said he would send you!" Erik nearly leapt back in shock as the little girl threw her arms around his neck.

Angel? Devil, perhaps…Ghost, maybe…But _angel_? That was one name he had never been called…and certainly not what he was expecting! He hated to disappoint the girl but… "And what makes you think I'm an angel, Christine?"

Christine pulled back from the hug to look at his face with what could only be described as awe. "Papa says that we can never see the faces of angels because their glory is too beautiful for us to understand. But I can see half of your face, so you must be a very special angel."

Erik smiled sadly, the bitter irony of the situation almost more than he could bear. "Or perhaps you are just a very special little girl."

The sudden chiming of the church bells alerted him to the hour. The Midnight Mass would be over soon.

"I must go soon, Christine. No one can ever know that you have seen me." He glanced anxiously at the doors. _Antoinette is going to kill me._ "In a few moments, the church will be letting out. When it does, go ask for Madame Giry. She is the ballet mistress at the Opera House. She has a daughter close to your age, and she will allow you to stay at the opera's dormitories until you can find a better place to stay."

The girl's eyes sparkled in amazement. "The Opera House? Oh, I've always dreamed of seeing it! Do you think they would let me perform?"

"There is a very good chance they will." In fact, she'd be expected to perform if she was to earn her keep, and with a voice like hers, he had no doubt that if she chose to stay at the Opera she would one day be a star. And he desperately hoped that she would.

"But, Angel, what if Madame Giry doesn't take me in?"

"Ask her to do it as a favor to an old friend. She will know what it means." Indeed, the woolen cloak he had draped over her shoulders had been a gift from Antoinette, so she would know exactly who had sent the girl. Not that it truly mattered… Erik had little doubt that the ballet mistress would ever turn away a child in need.

The first of the churchgoers were just beginning to trickle out of the cathedral. Erik tensed. Though still hidden among the shadows, he felt ill at ease being in such close proximity to the masses. And without his cloak, he felt oddly exposed, his white half-mask standing out starkly against the dark backdrop of the alleyway. He stood, taking her tiny hand in his massive gloved one and giving it a gentle squeeze.

"I'm afraid I must go now, Christine. I have enjoyed meeting you." He started to leave.

"Angel, wait!" He turned to see her tiny figure running after him. "Will I ever see you again?"

He smiled wistfully. "Perhaps…But know this: Even if you do not see me, for as long as you live in the Opera House, I will always watch over you."

"Promise?"

He knelt once again so that he was at her height. "I promise."

Christine ran to him, wrapping her tiny arms around his chest and burying her face against his shoulder. "Oh, Papa, you have given me the best Christmas gift ever! Thank you for sending me my Angel of Music."

Erik swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to ignore the stinging in the back of his eyes.

Then, she pulled back ever so slightly and planted a soft, gentle kiss on his exposed cheek. And any chance he might have had at regaining his composure was lost. A strangled sob escaped before he could suppress it, and with it several tears. He raised his left hand to his face, attempting to hide his shame, ever grateful that she could not see the horrid mound of flesh that was his right cheek. _If only she knew what was hidden beneath, she wouldn't dare to call me an angel. She wouldn't dare to…But, oh! A kiss! A kiss not even my mother would grant me! Oh, God, if You exist, bless this child!_

"Angel?" He looked down at her through blurry, tear-filled eyes. "Angel, why are you crying? Have I done something wrong?" The obvious concern in her voice was touching.

"No, dear one." He struggled to keep his voice even. "You have done something very good. God will not forget the kindness you have shown tonight." He knew _he_ would certainly never forget. And God, if He were listening, would surely reward one who was capable of showing such compassion to an undeserving creature.

Erik lifted his gaze from the girl to the church steps where Madame Giry had just begun to descend. Their eyes met but for a moment, but he thought he saw her smile.

"She is waiting for you, Christine." He nodded toward the church. "You must go."

The girl hesitated, not wanting to leave her newfound friend behind. Christine leaned in for one last hug, knowing that it could very well be the last time she would ever see her Angel of Music in the flesh. This time, he returned the embrace, wrapping his long arms around her slender waist. When she pulled back, there was a smile on her face. "Goodbye, Angel! Thank you!" She ran down the alleyway, then turned at the last minute to wave back at him. "And merry Christmas!"

Erik stared after her, the little girl looking almost comical as she raced toward the church, nearly tripping over the folds of a cloak that was much too large for her tiny figure. The night wind had only grown colder, but strangely, he found that he no longer needed the extra layer, for he was filled with an inexplicable warmth that seemed to emanate from within. He lifted a hand to his cheek, scarcely believing the events of the night. Perhaps God was not deaf to his prayers. Perhaps Madame Giry had been right about miracles. Perhaps he wasn't beyond the reach of redemption. One thing he did know: Angels were real. He had met one that very night in the form of a little girl called Christine.


End file.
